


Sawbones

by MidwesternDuchess



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Friendship Is The Best Ship, Just kids being kids, Lots of Arguing, The Big One, Young Genji, Young Hanzo, Young McCree, Young Mercy, and genji and hanzo are just being assholes in the subplot, basically the worst fucking camping trip ever, buckle the fuckle in, mercy and mccree try to see eye to eye, not even a hit of a ship, this is it kids, this is the fuckin story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-13 22:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7987771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/pseuds/MidwesternDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What can you know about a person? They shift in the light. You can’t light up all sides at once." -Richard Siken</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>(A freshly-recruited McCree and a hard-hearted Mercy follow the trail of two dueling Shimada brothers. It goes about as well as you think it might.)</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Complex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela goes still, hands freezing over the bedroll. Slowly, she turns, assessing him over shoulder. "Come again?"
> 
> He looks up, and there's a darkness to his expression that hadn't been there before. "You gonna make me repeat that?" he asks flatly. "You really _do_ have a complex, Doc."

Angela can't stop staring at the belt buckle.

It's tarnished and worn and shines dully in the flickering light of the fire. Below it, another belt, this one sporting an array of ammunition. Four letters are etched into the smudged gold.

_BAMF._

Angela is a woman who _knows_ things. She speaks many languages, has memorized hundreds of maps, and can identify minute quirks in the human body unlike anyone else. Being presented with a series of characters that—to her _extensive_ knowledge—mean nothing irritates her more than she cares to admit.

She will figure out what those four letters mean is if absolutely kills her.

"You done starin' at my crotch, Doc?"

Her eyes snap to the belt buckle's owner, and McCree arches an eyebrow, making it disappear behind the wide brim of his hat and his mess of untidy hair.

"I do not know _what_ you are talking about," she tells him, calling up the most dismissive tone she can and fastening her gaze to horizon—stained dark reds, yellows, and oranges as the sun keeps sinking.

A low chuckle. She doesn't dare turn back.

 _"Sure."_ If dismissal is her specialty, disbelief is his. "Just doin' some medical examinations, is that it?"

She fights the blush that threatens to stain her cheeks with everything she's got, turning to give him a long look of exasperation. "Be serious, please."

His eyes crinkle with the next laugh. He is enjoying this far too much.

"Hey, if there's anythin' wrong down there—"

"I was looking at your ridiculous _belt buckle!"_ she snaps, cutting him off ferociously. Her whole body's gone tense, blue eyes alight with anger.

His lips quirk. "I know. I'm jus' givin' you a hard time, Doc."

She just huffs an irritated sigh, pushing herself to her feet and crossing their small camp to where her supplies sits in a prim and organized contrast to McCree's cluttered mess of tools and provisions.

She eyes the mess darkly. "Are you going to clean this up?" she asks archly.

"Are you gonna undress me with yer eyes again?"

 _"He's a menace,"_ she'd shouted—yes, _shouted_ —at the Commander. _"He has no place on this team, and he has no place on this mission!"_

Reyes had eyed her carefully, expression expertly schooled. She'd shifted her weight anxiously. He's an imposing man, and she's a young war medic as green as the hills of Salzburg.

Still, she'd lifted her chin, staring straight into the Commander's coal-colored eyes—defiant.

 _"McCree is an Overwatch agent,"_ he'd told her, voice layered with authority. _"He's going with you."_

 _"He will kill me in my **sleep!"**_ Angela had protested hotly.

The Commander had simply rolled his eyes at this. _"McCree's a mess, Doc. But he isn't gonna hurt you."_

_"You cannot possibly know—"_

The Commander had stood then. Pushed himself away from his desk, crowded with maps and charts and documents of all kinds. Angela's gaze had dipped involuntarily to the KIA forms she'd quietly left on his desk a few days ago for him to sign off on.

Angela is formidable in spirit only—her small stature seemed only smaller when compared to the looming presence of the Commander.

 _"Ange,"_ he's said as gently as he can—which wasn't really all that gentle, but more of a quiet kind of coarseness— _"I'd never put my agents in danger. **Never.** I am sending McCree with you because he is convinced everyone on this base hates him—"_

 _"A fair assessment,"_ she'd interjected, because she's whip-smart and waspish when riled.

A steely look from Reyes quiets her. _"You don't have to like him, Doc. You just gotta respect him enough to watch his back, and let him watch yours."_ When her expression stays sour, he arches a dark eyebrow. _"You're always saying how much you love this organization. Was that all talk?"_

Angela's slender fingers flex as she looks over their supplies.

Overwatch is family. Gabriel, John, Ana, Reinhardt, Torbjörn, Fareeha…

_McCree?_

"I was doing no such thing," Angela finally tells him, smoothly reaching for a bedroll.

The mission is a mercifully short visit to a small satellite base of Overwatch on the outskirts of an old Western town. The Commander had been adamant that they not sleep at their base, insisting McCree's presence could draw trouble.

Hence the impromptu camping trip that Angela is significantly less than pleased with.

The area is apparently favored by the Deadlock Gang, which is why she's even dealing with the ludicrous gunslinger to begin with.

"Don' worry," he laughs darkly, and Angela frowns, disliking the change in his tone. "I ain't so arrogant as to think I'm worth the attention of the high 'n mighty _Mercy."_

Angela goes still, hands freezing over the bedroll. Slowly, she turns, assessing him over shoulder. "Come again?"

He looks up, and there's a darkness to his expression that hadn't been there before. "You gonna make me repeat that?" he asks flatly. "You really _do_ have a complex, Doc."

Her spine goes stiff. Her jaw locks itself.

"I _do not_ have a complex," she hisses, turning to face him properly. "What are you even—?"

"Forget it." His tone is suddenly harsh and distant.

Angela's pride urges her to fight back—to pick at _his_ insecurities. But _she_ is the established agent, _she_ is the reason this mission is happening at all, and the Commander had put his faith in _her._

She'll bow out with grace.

 _This_ time.

"What does the buckle mean?" she asks dully, because somebody has to be the adult here.

McCree goes still, and Angela shoots him a curious look as she gathers up a bedroll and blankets.

"Does it really matter?" he asks, an odd twist to his tone.

Angela's expression turns quizzical. "Does it matter?" she repeats, frowning. "I _guess_ not, but—"

"Good. Then let's drop it."

Angela peers at him. McCree determinedly avoids her gaze.

Darkness starts to creep into the canyon, and with a sigh, Angela begins to set up a small sleeping area, deciding to ignore the bizarre gunslinger and his bizarre belt buckle.

A few moments of silence pass. McCree gnaws on his lower lip. Angela moves about their small camp elegantly.

"Badass motherfucker." McCree does not say the words so much as he coughs them out, flushing darkly.

Angela arches a brow. She can't find it in herself to be surprised.

"Really?" her tone drip incredulity and disdain.

"It was a _gift,"_ McCree defends himself, face still a raging shade of red.

Angela folds her arms across her chest. "Not that I consider myself an expert on belt buckles," she begins, voice as dry as the goddamn desert and eyes like ice. "But if I were to etch a phrase onto any article of clothing I wear daily and display with an obscene amount of pride, I would be sure to choose a saying that I can recite without blushing like a fool."

McCree scowls at her stiffly. She offers a smile with a serpentine edge.

"I'm tryin' to be _polite,"_ he grinds out.

"You are failing," she informs him. "Impressively so."

Silence falls between them. Angela sighs and kneels beside the bedroll, smoothing it down. Tomorrow, they will go to the base, have a look around, patch up some wounds, smile for the camera, and be one their merry way.

"Wake me up in a few hours," she tells him, back to the gunslinger as she shakes out a blanket. "We can switch."

"Don' worry about it," McCree mutters back. "I can stay up. Did it all the time."

Angela considers arguing, but decides against it. Sometimes people don't like sleeping. She can understand that.

So she resigns herself to settling in for the night, keeping the thought of wrapping up this disaster of a trip tomorrow in the front of her mind.

Her back to McCree and the dying fire, she stares at the rocks that surround them, trying to soothe herself to sleep.

"'M sorry," he mutters.

Angela's eyes snap open in the dark.

The dry silence settles again, and Angela wonders if she'd imagined it—

"When I said you gotta complex," he goes on in that low, smooth drawl. "It ain't right for me to judge. You've saved lives. Yer a good person."

Angela swallows hard, staring sightlessly at the darkened canyon.

"Those two things are not mutually exclusive," she offers quietly.

Nothing is said after that, and Angela falls into a fitful sleep under the watchful eyes of McCree.

And the elder Shimada brother, who watches with the practiced eye of an archer, before turning and vanishing back amongst the rocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS IT. THE BIG ONE.
> 
> _"Duchess, you're shit at multi-chapter fics. What the fuck are you doing."_
> 
> Look _shhhh_ okay I know I've got a bad habit of [abandoning big fics](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7195706), but this is different. This is a) not that big, only like, four chapters and b) I've got most of it planned. No flying blind. I've got this.
> 
> If you liked [Quick Draw](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7898233) this is a lot in the spirit of that. Lots of arguing. Lots of soul-searching. Lots of shootouts. No shipping. That's the gist.
> 
> Let me know what you guys think! And just to prove that I'm absolutely definitely continuing this, here's a bit of the next chapter:
>
>> “We will return to the base.” Mercy’s voice leaves no room for argument. **“Now.”**  
>  _McCree scowls at her from beneath the shadows cast by his hat. “What? And let the sons of bitches that did this jus’ **walk?”**_
>> 
>> _Mercy grits her teeth. “We don’t know who they **are,** McCree!”_
>> 
>> _His eyes glint like live embers. “I’ll **find** ‘em.”_
>> 
>> _“And then what?” she demands. She waves a gloved hand at the destruction that surrounds them. “You are a fair shot, but you are still only one man!”_
>> 
>> _“I’m more’n a **fair shot—!”**_
>> 
>> _An arrow sprouts in the ground directly between Mercy’s feet._   
> 
> 
> _Like this piece? Here’s my billboard!_
> 
> **[MORE OVERWATCH WRITING](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/works?fandom_id=3406514) **
> 
> **[MAIN/PERSONAL BLOG](http://midwestern-duchess.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[WRITING DUMP](http://dominodebt.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[TWITTER](https://twitter.com/MidwestDuchess) **
> 
> Have a good week, kids! Feel free to shoot me a message if you have any questions or comments!


	2. Practicality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am not afraid." Mercy's words are clipped and sharpened and soaked with poison. "I am being _practical."_
> 
> "An' how many more people are gonna die 'casue of yer damned _practicality?"_ McCree demands.

"You sleep funny" is McCree's morning greeting.

Angela glares at him blearily. "You stayed up the whole night?"

McCree shrugs, and as Angela blinks sleep from her eyes, she realizes he's in full battle regalia—chest plate, chaps, and hat pulled low, nearly concealing his eyes.

"Told ya," he mutters, checking over his sidearm. "I did it all the time." Seemingly satisfied, he slides the weapon back in its holster, looking up to arch an incredulous eyebrow at her. "You comin' or what? There's a good chance these pricks'll gimme a hard time. I'm sure you'll wanna front row seat."

Angela rolls her eyes, pushing herself to her feet to begin packing up her supplies.

"Do not be stupid," she chides him, shaking out the blanket before neatly folding it away. "They will not dare speak to you in such a way."

McCree frowns, glancing up from his seated position to give her a look blended with skepticism and honest curiosity. "Yeah? And how's that?"

She shrugs lightly, crossing their camp to retrieve her Valkyrie suit where it's been packed away.

"You are a member of Overwatch," she lists off, giving him her back as she unlatches the case with a practiced air. "You are under the personal guardianship of Commander Gabriel Reyes. You have invaluable information regarding the Deadlock Gang. You are arguably one of the best shots in the United States. And," she looks over her shoulder to shoot him a self-satisfied smirk that—if not for the petty, confrontational nature of their relationship—McCree might almost call _teasing._

"You are in the company of _me."_

McCree just rolls his eyes, looking away. "Right. How could I forget."

She shrugs, unruffled at his dismissal as she sheds her sweatshirt to don the black undergarment of her suit.

"You do not have to like me," she says, sweeping her hair up in a messy tie to keep it out of her face. McCree snorts at his, toeing at the long-dead embers with his boot. "But you can be assured that you will be shown appropriate respect while with me."

McCree lets the issue drop. She's Overwatch's angel. Let her think what she wants.

"Be ready in ten," he mutters, pushing to his feet. "I'll do a quick sweep."

Angela just nods to herself as she clips armor to her chest. McCree spares her a backwards glance—watching this ordinary woman transform into the formidable archangel—before he turns to leave.

-0-

"This ain't right," McCree mutters.

Mercy just sets her jaw, privately agreeing with him. This is definitely not right.

"There is a logical explanation," she assures him, though her instincts beg to differ. She reflexively finds the grip of her Caduceus blaster.

The pair is situated outside the entrance of the Overwatch base, which they had quite literally strolled up to—completely undisturbed.

"This place is deserted," McCree tells her, glancing around, eyes skimming their surroundings.

"It…it does seem that way," Mercy allows, nervously chewing on her lower lip. "I would think they would have _some_ sort of secure— _McCree!"_

But she's thoroughly ignored as the gunslinger twists the handle and throws his shoulder against the door. It opens easily, and McCree almost stumbles, expecting resistance.

"Unlocked?" Mercy questions, stepping in behind him with a frown.

McCree knocks the tip of his hat up out of his eyes, giving her an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Seems that way." He rises back to full height, looking around. "Empty, too."

"But they were expecting us…" Mercy explains with a frown. "I was _with_ the Commander when he—"

She breaks off with a gasp as her gaze falls upon a pool of blood—dull and black-red, all across the floor and leaking out of a body lying still beside it. The Overwatch logo on his uniform is pristine white, with a few red specks splattered across it.

McCree crosses the room in a few quick strides, boots thumping loudly against the floor as he crouches beside the body. Mercy has half a mind to scold him away from it, but her thoughts are racing for an explanation—

"He's dead," McCree announces grimly. Mercy isn't looking, however, and McCree glances up as he hears the telltale click of her heels hurry down the hall. "Doc…?"

He hears a strangled gasp and hustles after her, drawing his weapon as he bursts into the room she'd vanished inside. "Doc, what—?" he breaks off, eyes going wide.

He stops short so as not to run into her as she hovers in the doorway of the first room.

Bodies cover the floor. Six corpses—all bearing the Overwatch insignia on their shoulders.

Mercy grits her teeth. McCree swears softly.

"Holy shit…" he whispers, dark eyes scanning the room. "Who coulda…?"

"Come on," Mercy takes hold of his arm. "We have to leave."

He gives her a look of bewilderment. "You ain't gonna _inspect_ 'em?"

Her gaze hardens. "I do not need to _inspect_ them," she tells him frostily. "This is fresh. The killers are doubtlessly still in the area."

She turns to leave, hauling the gunslinger after her. Reluctantly, McCree offers a quick tip of his hat to the nearest body before he's back outside in the canyon, blinking in the bright sun.

"So," he mutters gruffly, squinting slightly. "What now?"

"We will return to our base." Mercy's voice leaves no room for argument. _"Now."_

McCree scowls at her from beneath the shadows cast by his hat. "What? And let the sons of bitches that did this jus' _walk?"_

Mercy grits her teeth. "We don't know who they _are,_ McCree!"

His eyes glint like live embers. "I'll _find_ 'em."

"And then what?" she demands. She waves a gloved hand at the building full of corpses. "You are a fair shot, but you are still only one man!"

"I'm more'n a _fair shot—!"_

An arrow sprouts in the ground directly between Mercy's feet.

Time stops. The whole canyon holds its breath. Mercy's eyes go wide while McCree's brow pulls down in confusion.

"Shimada," she whispers, the name fear-soaked and wretched.

A thousand thoughts flash through her mid: _ambush, trap, miscommunication, bounty, betrayal, coincidence—_

Sense slams back into her as she sees McCree reach for his sidearm, expression lacing tight with confusion and anger.

"Who the hell…?" he begins, scanning the horizon.

_McCree doesn't know._

Mercy seizes the gunslinger by the back of his collar without thought, gunning her wings and propelling them out of the open space to the back of the building. Wordlessly, she hauls him out of sight and shoves him against the wall.

"The Shimada Clan." Mercy's voice shakes even if she doesn't.

McCree stares down at her, torn between the desire to put a bullet through the head of the responsible party and the common sense that tells him if the Angel is this worried, maybe he should be too.

"I don' know what that means." He answers honestly—if not begrudgingly—dropping his hand where it had been drifting towards his weapon.

"Assassins," she answers flatly. "Mercenaries. Murderers. The very worst of humanity, McCree, we do not stand a _chance—"_

He pulls away from the wall then, moving past her, a determined set to his jaw. "Pretty sure the Deadlock Gang held that title," he tells her. "I'll smoke 'em out."

_"No."_

Her hands—locked in the pearly-white gauntlets of her Valkyrie suit—latch onto his arm, tugging him back with more force than he anticipates. He cranes his neck to throw her an annoyed look over his shoulder.

"Let _go."_

"You will _not_ pursue them," she hisses, and there's a tension in her voice that he's never heard. "McCree, you do not understand—"

"They tried to fuckin' _kabob_ ya, Doc. It ain't that complicated." He gives his arm a tug, but she holds fast, digging her heels into the packed dirt.

He turns back to face her properly, frowning at the way her heeled boots break their height difference. They gaze steadily at each other, stubbornness against stubbornness.

"We cannot take on the entire Shimada Clan," she snaps at him. "They are the most vile—"

"It ain't _all_ of 'em," McCree argues. He waves his free hand back in the direction the arrow had come from. "Jus' whoever did _this."_

Mercy's eyes catch fire. He's misspoken.

"This?" she repeats fiercely. _"This?_ McCree, they slaughtered an entire _OverwatchM_ base! These people were not civilians, they were highly trained—"

"So yer scared," he cuts her off, glaring—a challenge in his buckshot eyes. "Yer sayin' yer scared of this Shimada whatever."

If looks could kill, the gunslinger would be really impressively dead.

"I am not afraid." Mercy's words are clipped and sharpened and soaked with poison. "I am being _practical."_

"An' how many more people are gonna die 'casue of yer damned _practicality?"_ McCree demands.

Mercy eyes go cold, fingers curling into his arm with a grip that could bruise.

"Mind yourself, _McCree,"_ she nearly growls, lips pulled back in a delicate snarl. "You are speaking far out of—"

"Look me in the eyes an' tell me you don' wanna help these people," he interrupts, jabbing a finger at the base. "If you can do that, we'll drop the whole thing right here an' now."

McCree holds her gaze ruthlessly, refusing to allow her to look away, dully reflecting how odd it is that a woman so cold and detached can name compassion as her biggest flaw.

Mercy can't _not_ help people. She just doesn't know how.

She takes a breath, and lets it go with a rattling in her chest. "Just…just let me contact the Commander—"

"They'll be long gone by then and we both know it," McCree argues. He draws his weapon, Mercy still holding his other arm. "Nobody's forcin' you to do nothin', Doc. But _this_ is why I left Deadlock."

Silence falls between them again, resuming their staring match.

The wind whistles through the canyon.

"They have not moved," she whispers tightly, voice low and stressed.

"I know," he mutters back gruffly.

Another moment rolls by. McCree slowly draws Peacekeeper.

"Cover me?" he asks lowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I TOLD YOU I'D BE BACK
> 
> Sorry for the wait but I got like, weirdly disillusioned with this fic because for some reason I decided it would be a good idea to read like, the best-written and most popular Overwatch fic ever and directly compare my work to it???? Because comparison is totally how you improve???? (it's not don't do that kids)
> 
> Anyway whatever I'm back here we go this is a little rushed but a) this story isn't about the Overwatch base that was decimated so I didn't feel the need to prolong things by talking about it ("that's world-building Duchess" no it isn't) and b) I'm like, not super good at writing multi-fic stuff? like I'm majorly out of my element so please bear with me as I try to figure this out because transitioning from all one-shots all the time to long-form stuff is not the easiest thing I have ever done!  
>  _Like this piece? Here’s my billboard!_
> 
> **[MORE OVERWATCH WRITING](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MidwesternDuchess/works?fandom_id=3406514) **
> 
> **[MAIN/PERSONAL BLOG](http://midwestern-duchess.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[WRITING DUMP](http://dominodebt.tumblr.com/) **
> 
> **[TWITTER](https://twitter.com/MidwestDuchess) **
> 
> **_AND HEY_** if you are reading this between the days of **Friday, September 23rd** to **Sunday, September 25th** and you maybe like my writing and want me to write a piece about your favorite character from like any fandom you want you should check out [this post](http://dominodebt.tumblr.com/post/150839688482/character-studies) and send me a prompt and I'll try really hard not to butcher them!
> 
> ~~If it's past those days then I'm sorry you missed out but like I heart you anyway and thanks for reading!~~
> 
> Have a good weekend, kids!


End file.
